Page 18 of Claimed By the Bikers (Black Wolves MC #4)

ATLAS

The morning supply invoice spreadsheet shows everything in order—insulin shipments accounted for, blood pressure medications distributed to the Henderson route, and antibiotics delivered to the Morrison family for their youngest son’s pneumonia.

I lean back in my office chair, satisfaction warming my chest. After years spent building this network, we’re finally operating at the capacity I’d envisioned when Garrett and I first started talking about expanding beyond individual cases.

Two hundred families across three counties, systematic distribution routes, and reliable suppliers who ask few questions.

My phone buzzes against the desk. Rico’s name is on the display, which could mean routine intel or serious problems. With Rico, there’s rarely anything in between.

“Talk to me.”

“We’ve got a problem.” His voice carries that edge it gets when he’s discovered something he doesn’t like. “Los Serpientes are moving north. Three vehicles were spotted yesterday outside Flagstaff, and two more this morning near Sedona.”

I straighten in my chair. Los Serpientes—not the same Serpents who killed Garrett’s family twenty years ago, but a Mexican cartel that’s been expanding into Arizona territory. Bad news for anyone trying to run quiet operations in the mountains.

“How reliable is this intel?”

“Solid. My contact at the border patrol says they’ve been tracking increased activity for two weeks. Looks like someone’s planning to establish new territory.”

“Any connection to our operations?”

“Not yet. But they’ve been asking questions about supply routes through Wolf Pike. Specifically about who’s moving what through our area.”

Ice settles in my stomach. “They think we’re competition.”

“Or they want to be our partners. Either way, it’s not good.”

I run a hand through my hair, mind already shifting into tactical mode. “How much time do we have?”

“Hard to say. It could be days or weeks. But Atlas? These aren’t street dealers looking to sell drugs to teenagers. Los Serpientes are serious players. Military-grade weapons, professional operators, the kind of organization that eliminates problems rather than negotiating around them.”

“Understood. Increase security around all our sites. Double the watch on supply runs. And Rico?”

“Yeah?”

“Nobody moves alone from now on. Especially our girl.”

“Copy that. I’ll coordinate with Jake’s people, make sure we have eyes on all the major routes.”

After ending the call, I stare out my office window at the restaurant’s morning crowd.

Retirees nursing coffee, local contractors grabbing breakfast before job sites, families with kids who don’t know their pancakes are subsidized by medical supply profits.

Normal people living normal lives, unaware that their quiet mountain town has just become a potential battlefield.

I pull up the contact list on my phone and start making calls.

“Tommy, it’s Atlas. I need you and your crew to start rotating shifts. Eight-hour watches, with a minimum of two people on duty at all times… We might have company soon, and I want to make sure our friends stay safe… Good man.”

“Jake, we need to talk about perimeter security. Can you meet me at the warehouse in an hour?… Cartel movement. Los Serpientes… I know, I know. We’ll handle it.”

“Marco, I need extra eyes on the restaurant. Starting today, someone should always have a line of sight on the main building… Yeah, that kind of protection. Just until we know what we’re dealing with.”

By noon, I’ve repositioned our entire security network.

Extra men on the supply routes, increased surveillance around the restaurant, backup protocols for evacuating vulnerable families if things go sideways.

The kind of planning I haven’t done since Afghanistan, when every day brought new threats and every decision carried life-or-death consequences.

“Everything alright?” Ember asks during a brief lull, settling into the chair across from my desk. “The whole place feels like it’s on high alert.”

“Just being cautious.”

“About what?”

I study her face, trying to decide how much to reveal.

She’s proven her loyalty, chosen our side over her former agency, and integrated into our operation and our lives.

But involving her in a potential cartel conflict feels like crossing another line, putting her in danger that goes beyond FBI investigations and federal charges.

“There’s been some unusual activity in the area. People are asking questions, and unfamiliar vehicles are on our supply routes. Probably nothing, but I prefer to be prepared.”

“What kind of people?”

“The kind who don’t like sharing territory.”

Her eyes sharpen with understanding. “Drug dealers?”

“Cartels. Mexican operation looking to expand north into Arizona. They may see our activities as competition or opportunity, depending on how much they know.”

“Do they know about the medical supplies?”

“We don’t think so. But they know something moves through Wolf Pike on a regular schedule, and that’s enough to make them curious.”

She leans back in her chair, processing this information. “How serious is the threat?”

“Serious enough that I want extra security around our key assets.”

“I hope I’m not included.”

“Of course you are.”

“Atlas, I’m FBI-trained. I can handle myself in dangerous situations.”

“I know you can. That doesn’t mean I’m comfortable putting you at risk.”

“You’re not putting me at risk. I chose to be here, chose to be part of this operation. That means accepting the dangers that come with it.”

My phone buzzes with a text from Rico: Two more vehicles spotted near the lumber mill. Definitely watching our territory.

“I have to go,” I tell Ember, standing and reaching for my jacket. “Marco will handle the dinner shift. I want you to stay close to the restaurant tonight, no unnecessary trips into town.”

“Atlas—”

“This isn’t negotiable. Not until we know what we’re dealing with.”

Her jaw tightens, but she nods. “Fine. But I want to know what’s happening as it develops. No keeping me in the dark to protect my feelings.”

“Deal.”

But as I head out to meet with Rico and coordinate our response, I can’t shake the feeling that protecting Ember might require more than just extra security. It might require choices I’m not ready to make.

By evening, the intelligence picture has gotten worse.

Los Serpientes have established observation posts on three major routes leading into Wolf Pike, suggesting they’re planning something more than casual territory expansion.

Rico’s contacts report increased chatter about “northern opportunities” and “mountain partnerships,” the kind of language that usually precedes violent takeovers.

I return to the house after dark, physically and mentally exhausted from coordinating defensive positions and contingency plans. The living room is quiet, just Ember curled up on the couch with a book, but I can see tension in the line of her shoulders.

“Silas and Garrett?” I ask.

“Silas is in his forge, working late. Garrett’s at the storage facility, checking inventory.” She closes the book and looks up at me. “How bad is it?”

“Bad enough. They’re definitely planning something, we just don’t know what or when.”

“And you’ve assigned me a babysitter.”

“I’ve assigned you protection. Marco has orders to keep an eye on you whenever you leave the house.”

“I noticed. Hard to miss a two-hundred-pound biker following me to the grocery store.”

“He’s good at his job.”

“I’m sure he is. But Atlas, I’m not some helpless civilian who needs constant supervision. I’m a federal agent with tactical training and combat experience.”

“You’re an important person in my world, which makes you a target if anyone figures out how much you mean to us.”

“Talk to me,” she says softly. “Not as the guy coordinating security, but as the man who’s clearly terrified of losing something precious.”

“I’m not terrified.”

“Liar.” She reaches up to touch my face, thumb stroking across my cheekbone. “I can see it in your eyes. The same look you had when you caught me with that phone. Fear disguised as control.”

“Maybe I am scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of failing to protect you the way I failed to protect my men in Afghanistan.”

“Tell me about Afghanistan. Not the mission or the politics, but what it did to you. What it taught you about loss.”

I want to deflect, to give her the sanitized version I’ve shared with therapists and investigators. But something in her expression—understanding mixed with fierce compassion—makes me want to tell the truth.

“Come upstairs with me.”

In my bedroom, with the door closed and the house quiet around us, I pull off my shirt and turn so she can see my back. The scars are faded now, white lines against tanned skin, but they still map the story of the worst night of my life.

“Shrapnel,” I explain as her fingers trace the largest scar. “IED that took out our transport vehicle outside Kabul.”

“How many were hurt?”

“Four injured, two dead. Martinez and Johnson, both kids barely out of basic training. Johnson was supposed to rotate home the following month. Had a girlfriend waiting for him, planned to propose when he got back.”

Her touch is gentle, reverent almost, as she follows each scar’s path. “You blame yourself.”

“I was the commanding officer. Their safety was my responsibility.”

“And you couldn’t have known about the IED.”

“No. But I could have chosen a different route, varied our patrol schedule, and been more careful about local intelligence. Any number of decisions that might have saved their lives.”

“Or gotten all of you killed instead of just two.”

I turn to face her, noting how she’s cataloging every mark on my torso—the bullet scar on my shoulder, the knife wound across my ribs, the evidence of a life lived in dangerous places.

“After the attack, the command wanted to evacuate the wounded and replace them with fresh personnel. Standard protocol for maintaining unit strength.” I sit on the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted.

“But these weren’t just soldiers to me. They were family.

Brothers I’d trained with, fought with, bled with. ”

“So you fought to keep them.”

“I fought the bureaucrats who saw them as numbers on a casualty report instead of human beings who’d sacrificed for their country.

Spent weeks arguing with desk jockeys who’d never heard a shot fired in anger about why my wounded men deserved proper medical care instead of being shipped home and forgotten. ”

“Did you win?”

“Some battles. Lost others. Martinez got the treatment he needed, kept his leg, and eventually made it home to his family. But the fight used up all my political capital, made me enemies in places I couldn’t afford them.”

“Is that why they abandoned you during the evacuation?”

“Partly. I’d become a problem officer, someone who put his men’s welfare ahead of convenient politics. When the time came to choose between supporting my decision and protecting their own careers, most of them chose self-preservation.”

Ember settles beside me on the bed, close enough that our thighs touch. “But you saved those people. The families you evacuated.”

“Sixty-three lives. But it cost me everything else—my career, my reputation, my faith in the system I’d served for fifteen years.” I meet her eyes in the dim light. “That’s when I learned that sometimes doing the right thing means accepting that you’ll face the consequences alone.”

“You’re not alone now.”

“No. But I can’t shake the feeling that caring about you, about Garrett and Silas, makes me vulnerable in ways I can’t control. That loving people gives life more ways to destroy you.”

“It also gives you more reasons to fight.”

“Does it? Or does it make you weak? Hesitant when you should act decisively, emotional when you should stay cold?”

She considers this, fingers tracing idle patterns on my forearm. “In Seattle, before the trafficking ring, I thought emotional distance was strength. Thought not caring about anyone made me a better agent, more effective at my job.”

“What changed your mind?”

“You. All of you. Discovering that the people I care about make me fiercer, not weaker. More willing to take risks, not less.” She looks up at me.

“Love doesn’t make you vulnerable, Atlas.

It makes you dangerous. Because there’s nothing more terrifying than someone who has something worth protecting. ”

I study her face, looking for any sign that she doesn’t understand what she’s saying. That she doesn’t grasp the full implications of choosing to stand with us against whatever’s coming. But all I see is determination.

“The cartel situation is going to get worse before it gets better,” I tell her honestly. “There may come a time when I have to choose between protecting our operation and protecting you.”

“Then you choose both. Because I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not letting anyone destroy what we’ve built.”

She kisses me, fierce and claiming, and I taste determination on her lips. When we break apart, she’s looking at me like I’m something worth fighting for, worth dying for if necessary.

“The scars don’t bother you?” I ask, suddenly needing to know.

“They’re proof you survived. Proof you fought for people who mattered to you, even when it cost you everything.” Her fingers trace the longest scar, the one that nearly took my life. “They’re beautiful.”

“You’re insane.”

“Maybe. But I’m your kind of insane.”

I flip us over, pinning her beneath me on the mattress, and she laughs at the sudden movement. “Are you sure about this?” I ask her. “About us? Because once this conflict starts, there won’t be any neutral ground. No safe spaces or easy exits.”

“I stopped wanting easy exits the day I realized I was home.”

“Home?”

“Here. With you, with Garrett and Silas, in this strange life we’ve built together.” She pulls me down for another kiss. “This is my family, Atlas. My real family. And I’ll burn down anyone who tries to take it from me.”